Chapter 147 Ryan's Illness
Kevin and Chris's faces changed instantly.
When Ryan was six years old, he had been taken from an amusement park by a human trafficker.
Kevin had been ten then, Chris eight—old enough to manage themselves. Zander and Tobias were only three, one frail and constantly ill, the other mischievous enough to consume all of Jenny's attention.
So when Ryan asked to go to the amusement park that weekend, Jenny sent a household servant to take him.
It happened in the span of buying cotton candy. The servant turned back with the treat, and the bench where Ryan had been sitting was empty.
At first, the Martinez family thought it was a kidnapping. But no ransom demand ever came. The police could only classify the case as a disappearance.
The person who took Ryan was a woman in her thirties from a rural area. She had no idea the boy was the son of the Martinez family. She was simply hunting for a target in the park when she saw him—beautiful, healthy, a child who would fetch a high price.
She didn't think twice. She walked away with him.
It was only later, after seeing the news, that she realized she had taken someone she should never have touched. Terrified, she didn't dare return him, and she didn't dare sell him. She hid him instead.
Ryan was locked in an abandoned warehouse on the mountain for five days.
The place was bare, without windows, without light. Darkness pressed in like a living thing, suffocating, absolute. The only sound was his own breathing.
Even years later, Kevin couldn't imagine how a child that young had survived those five days.
The psychologist said Ryan had spent them curled in a corner, seeing light only when the woman opened the door to bring food.
Every time he looked up, her red dress blazed in the sunlight, so bright it hurt his eyes after so long in the dark.
The smell of greasy rice soup in the bowl made him gag and convulse after she left.
Ryan was young, but sharp.
He didn't know where he was or when he might leave. He was afraid… but more than that, he feared forgetting—forgetting the days, forgetting who he was, forgetting his parents and brothers.
So he began carving marks into his arm with a sharp stone, counting the days, forcing himself to stay awake inside his own mind.
On the fifth day, the chance came.
When the woman brought food, he had already worked free of the chain locked to his right ankle. He lunged at her, a six-year-old boy throwing all his weight into the attack.
The chopsticks in his hand had been whittled to sharp points. He stabbed her neck again and again, crying as he did it.
Hot blood sprayed over him. She convulsed on the floor, then went still. He dropped the chopsticks and ran screaming down the mountain, collapsing at the base.
A passerby found the blood-covered child and rushed him to the hospital.
Kevin and Chris would never forget the sight of their little brother there—once bright, beautiful, and lively, now a boy who lived in constant fear.
He feared darkness. He feared the sound of a door locking. He feared being alone. He feared the sight of a woman in a red dress.
Without warning, his body would convulse, gag, and lock into a state of unconscious pain. Rage and self-harm came with it.
He had been only six.
The Martinez family had no choice but to send him to a private clinic for psychological treatment. He stayed there for a year.
When he returned home, he seemed better—polite, quiet. But Kevin and Chris knew something had changed.
The doctors said his memories had been deliberately blurred. The darkness was now only fragments, like dreams or scenes from a film. It had happened, but it was no longer sharp enough to torment him daily.
But there was one warning—never leave him alone in the dark.
And never let him see a woman in a red dress during an episode.
Because in that state, he would lose all reason, convinced that killing her was the only way to go home, the only way to survive.
Jenny had repeated those words to everyone in the family at the dinner table. Gatherings, blackouts, anywhere dark—someone had to stay with Ryan.
For years, he had been stable. The fear had never returned. Everyone had slowly let go of their vigilance.
But Chris had never stopped reacting to red dresses. Tonight, when the party began, he had seen Amelia's red slip dress and felt a flicker of tension. Ryan had shown no reaction, so Chris had let it go.
Until now.
No one could have predicted the chandelier would explode, the wiring would short out, and the entire mansion would be swallowed by darkness.
Kevin and Chris knew—Ryan feared the dark, and he could not be alone.
But Ryan had been in the hall earlier. Yvette's casual question had made them realize—he wasn't there anymore.
If he wasn't in the hall… where was he?
Could this sudden darkness trigger an episode?
Their hearts slammed into their throats. Jenny caught on and shouted Ryan's name, running upstairs.
Others didn't know why, but the look on their faces was enough to make them follow.
Third floor. Ryan's room.
The door was broken.
It had been kicked from the inside. Blood marked the splintered wood, as if fists had pounded it over and over.
Why would the door be kicked open? Had it been locked before?
Kevin's mind roared—this was bad.
A crash echoed from above, like something slamming into a cabinet.
Fourth floor.
Aside from the music room and the theater, only Chris's bedroom was there. It should have been empty.
Chris's eyes went wide, his voice trembling.
"Amelia is asleep… she's wearing a red dress… and she's in my room right now."